


And the Rest was Silence

by Reaping



Series: Artsy April [15]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Deaf, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Future Fic, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Oops, Post-Canon, Self-Loathing, Slow Build, deaf!Stiles, issues with self-worth, mostly off-screen violence, the sheriff's name is John, this was supposed to be shorter and fluffier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:04:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6705511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reaping/pseuds/Reaping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April 16th: Noise</p><p>“Still can’t hear, go away.” He forms the words carefully, not sure how loud they are, but sure the wolves will get it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing a lovely challenge with some friends called Artsy April. They'll be doing art, but since I cannot draw or paint or sculpt or do basically anything art-related to save my life, I'm doing a daily fic. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> If I missed tags let me know. Concrit is always welcome and appreciated.
> 
>  **A/N:** So...this was a big thing that happened. I hope that I did alright, I have never written a deaf character before and I'm sorry if it does not come across well. Some brief notes: I'm aware that ASL doesn't work exactly like English, but for the purposes of this fic, we're assuming that everyone is filling in the words that don't get signed so you're reading the full sentences. 
> 
> Also, I mention an organization in this called California Hands and Voices - it is [real](http://cahandsandvoices.org/). Whether or not any facility they have actually offers classes is up for debate (I don't think so) but again, for the purposes of this fic, we're gonna go with they do. 
> 
> If you feel any part of this needs to be better tagged/is offensive and needs an edit/etc, please feel free to let me know in comments or on my [Tumblr](http://jennthereaper.tumblr.com/) askbox.

The high-pitched whine in his ears is making it hard to focus, thoughts muzzy and disoriented. Everything seems to be coming in flashes, bits of light and smoke, brain unable to make sense of it. If only the noise would stop maybe he could concentrate. Except when it does stop, so does everything else. He’d expected sound to rush back at him, help him figure out what was happening. It doesn’t happen. Nothing happens. The flashes are still blinding him, the smoke choking his airway, but there’s no rush of sound. There’s no noise at all. Palms slide up, pressing tightly against his ears, eyes shut tight while he tries to focus but it’s no use. There’s nothing. He can feel his heartbeat racing, feel his chest moving, but he can’t hear anything at all. His body starts to shake, panic taking hold as he scrambles to his hands and knees, body listing from side to side as he tries to crawl, balance completely shot. He has no idea where he’s going everything before the last few moments lost in whatever had happened, but he keeps pushing forward, the air clearing a little more with every foot he moves. He stops only when he bumps into a familiar tire, hands scrabbling for purchase as he hauls himself up and in, body curling in on itself in the tiny space behind the back seat of the jeep, fingers digging into his own scalp sharply, panic fluttering at the edges of his vision, darkening them. Time loses all meaning, nothing there to tether him to whatever is happening outside of the car beyond the lengthening breaks between flashes of light. Eventually they stop completely and he shuts his eyes, afraid to know whether that’s a good sign or not. Bits and pieces are coming back to him. Isaac kidnapped, the pack tracking him to a warehouse, shots, an explosion – he’s pretty sure he was close, was thrown backwards. Everything after that is a blur. The pack finds him with tears streaking through the dirt on his face, a heavy hand startling him into a silent scream. Silent for him anyhow, he’s not sure about the others, but he thinks there may have been sound based on the way they all winced. He can see their mouths moving, but it’s too fast for him to parse any of it out and his breath hitches as he begins to sob, not that he can hear it.

Surprisingly, it’s Derek who seems to understand first. He turns Stiles’ face towards him, and doesn’t try speaking, instead he turns a finger to point at Stiles before bringing it up to touch his own ear, eyes searching his face. His head bows as Stiles shakes his own, more tears spilling down his cheeks. He turns to the others, must give some sort of order because suddenly they’re all moving. Stiles watches silently while Derek tosses his keys to Erica before reaching in to help haul Stiles from the back of the jeep, hand held out asking for the other man’s keys. Stiles drags them out with shaking hands, drops them onto Derek’s waiting palm, then carefully moves around to the passenger seat, buckling himself in and keeping his face trained onto his own knees. He doesn’t want to see whatever expression Derek’s wearing right now. His mind wanders, trying to find the missing pieces of the night, on the ride to the hospital. The sheer number of people who try to speak to him when he arrives does nothing to help, and he’s burying his face in his hands to stifle the sobs before long. Derek guides him gently to the room they must have assigned him, hand firm on Stiles’ elbow as he helps him up onto the hospital bed before dragging a chair next to it and settling in, shifting his palm until it’s flat on Stiles forearm, a comforting weight as the tears and the night catch up to him, dragging him down into the darkness.

He wakes to a gentle tapping against his arm, Derek lifting his hand only to point at the door. His eyes track the movement and find his father hovering. He doesn’t open his mouth to speak, and Stiles guesses that he must have been standing there for a bit before Derek woke him, enough time to explain that Stiles can’t hear him. He hesitates only long enough to be sure Stiles has seen him before he’s striding across the room, enveloping his son in his arms. Stiles reaches out and grabs Derek’s arm as he sees the other man start to stand, holding him in place, eyes begging him to stay. He has his father, but he needs his pack too.

 

**

 

The doctor, when she came, ran a lot of tests. Too many for Stiles to keep track of. She patiently wrote everything out on a touchpad, making sure he understood each diagnoses before moving on. He had a mild concussion, which accounted for the few missing memories, and there was no telling if or when they’d ever resurface. He’d also sprained his wrist, but the pain of that was lost among a ton of other small injuries. She’d made sure to bind his wrist tight, explaining carefully in her writing that he’d need to leave it looser when he slep and couldn’t monitor his breathing as easily. The tests they ran on his hearing were the worst, nothing penetrated the absolute silence, and the doctor couldn’t keep the dismay from her face. Eventually they sent him for an MRI, then waited for nearly a half hour while the panic attack it induced subsided. Derek donning an iron apron and insisting on being in the room, against the doctor’s advice, was the only thing that made it possible for them to run the test in the end. She’d explained it all to his father, pressing pamphlets in his hands. Sensorineural Hearing Loss, his auditory nerves had been severed by the concussive wave sent out from the explosion, his eardrums shattered. Irreparable. Permanent. His eyes lost focus after that, mind turning in on itself.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles finds out the next day that Isaac had made it out safely. Everyone had. He huffs out a humorless laugh when Scott writes that on the notepad sitting next to him. He hates the guilt that passes over Scott’s face, but not enough to make himself pick up the pen and reassure his friend. He hasn’t made a sound since the pack found him. He can tell it’s unnerving them, but he can’t really bring himself to care. So what if they’re not used to him being quiet, he’s not used to the total silence. Why should he make them more comfortable? He starts insisting his dad turn them away when they show up. It’s too hard, watching them catch themselves as they start to talk, forgetting that he can’t hear them for a moment. He can’t forget, can’t stomach the pity on their faces. He stops leaving his room entirely after a week, doesn’t see the point in getting out of bed. He’s spent the better part of three days there before Scott shows up, Derek in tow. He turns his back to them, curling around a pillow and closing his eyes. He assumes they’ll leave, his message clear. What he doesn’t expect is to be dragged bodily off the bed by his ankle. He thumps to the floor, glare murderous.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” He’s pretty sure he yelled, can feel the vibrations echoing around his chest. Scott’s eyes go wide, mouth dropping open and hope seeping into his face. “Still can’t hear, go away.” He forms the words carefully, not sure how loud they are, but sure the wolves will get it. He watches Scott’s shoulders slump, his friend turning to say something to Derek, who only shakes his head, mouth tight before stalking over to Stiles, bending and shoving his shoulder into Stiles’ middle as he sweeps him off the floor in a fireman’s carry. All the pounding against the other man’s back does nothing to get him to put him back on his feet. He isn’t released until he finds himself dumped unceremoniously in the bathroom, sees Derek’s arm snake out around the door before a towel goes flying at his face, followed by fresh clothes. Stiles struggles to his feet, filled with indignation, and tries to push past the werewolf, but his strength has never been a match for theirs. When he bounces back a second time he gives up and glares right back at Derek. He sees the expression soften, understanding creeping onto the other man’s face, but it doesn’t stop Derek from pointing at Stiles and then the shower before he makes a show of pinching his nose closed, waving his other hand in front of it while his mouth turns down in a grimace. He wants to argue, but he refuses to speak again, and also he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have a leg to stand on because the damage to his senses did not extend to his nose and he’s aware that he’s pretty ripe. He just didn’t care to rectify the situation. It appears that whether he cares or not doesn’t really matter now, because there’s six feet of werewolf that definitely has no intention of moving until he showers. He gives in, stripping off his shirt, seeing Derek step back as he does so, cheeks pinking up as the door closes. He sighs to himself as he finishes undressing. Once, the thought of Derek maybe-blushing at seeing Stiles disrobe might have meant something to him, but now…now nothing really mattered, because the pack was going to realize how useless he was to them. He swallows against the sudden lump in his throat and steps under the spray.

By the time he steps out again, the water has gone cold. He dresses slowly, careful of his still-healing injuries, but finds himself unable to rewrap his wrist. He opens the bathroom door, worried that he’s going to have to wander the house to find out if anyone is still there to help, relief welling up in his chest to find Derek sitting against the wall opposite the door, clearly waiting for him. He holds the wrap loosely in one hand, lifting it slightly before gesturing at his other wrist. Derek nods and rises, taking the binding and carefully winding it around his hand and arm until its snug, he taps Stiles shoulder to get his attention, nodding down at it to be sure it’s tight enough before carefully setting the hooks to keep it in place. He grabs Stiles’ shirt off the bathroom floor and helps him ease it on as well before he steps back, tilting his head to ask Stiles to follow him. Rather than risk being dragged out of bed again, he does. Scott’s waiting downstairs, pointing at Stiles’ shoes and jacket as soon as he has his attention. He does what’s being asked and finds himself being herded outside and into the Camaro.

They pull up in front of an unfamiliar building, and Stiles shoots a puzzled glance at the two men, but they’d left his notepad at the house so he had no easy way for them to tell him what was going on. It didn’t really matter, it was clear the moment he stepped inside. The sign over the reception desk reads “California Hands and Voices” and below it sits a visual chart for the ASL alphabet. He recognized the organization from one of the pamphlets the hospital had given him when he was first diagnosed. There was a small woman with dark hair working the front desk and, despite the irritation suddenly flooding his system, he returned the smile she gave him. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly before turning on his heel and marching right back out of the building, not sparing a glance at the other two on his way out. He made it halfway around the side of the building, away from the parking lot, before he allowed his face to twist into a grimace; hot, angry tears slid down his cheeks and he slammed his fist into the brick, hand recoiling in pain, knuckles now split and bleeding. He slumped against the building, sliding down the wall until he was sitting, drawing his knees up to his chest and burying his face in them, hands hanging limply as they dripped blood slowly onto the concrete. He wasn’t startled when he felt a hand touch his forearm, he expected one or both of them to come after him. The pain slowly ebbed away as one of them drew it out (he assumed, he was refusing to lift his head or open his eyes for the moment). Fingers brushed under his chin, a gentle attempt to draw his head up but he flinched away, twisting so he was facing the other direction. It was childish, he knew. Everything about the last few minutes was childish, but he didn’t much feel like being an adult right now. It was stupid, but for some reason being brought here made everything real in a way it hadn’t been – he didn’t know what he’d been thinking, maybe that if he never learned to sign his hearing would magically come back. But there wasn’t a magic cure, not really. Except…maybe there was.

He scrambled up, frantically patting at the pockets of…Scott’s jeans (and what a relief to realize it was Scott he was groping and not Derek) until he located his phone and opened the texts, scrolling until he found the last time Scott had texted him (no reason to risk accidentally sending this to anyone else). He typed furiously before passing the phone back and tapping at the screen so Scott would stop looking at him and read it.

_I need you to give me the bite, becoming a werewolf will heal me just like it healed you and Erica._

His grin was wide and bright, eyes shining as he thought about regaining the lost sense. Scott was still staring at the message though, hand tightening around the phone, eyes tracking back and forth as he read it and re-read it. Stiles could feel the smile slipping off his face the longer they stood there, eyes filling again as Scott’s head slowly began to shake, fingers tapping to erase the message and type a new one in it’s place before handing it over. Stiles felt the anger bubble back up as he read, tears once again running freely down his face.

_It’s too dangerous, I’m sorry. You could die and I won’t be responsible for taking away the only family your dad has left. I don’t want to lose you either._

He shoved the phone into Scott’s chest, hands shaking in anger as he stomped back towards the car. Derek was leaning against the driver’s side, clearly waiting for Stiles and Scott to return, arms crossed over his chest, face inscrutable. Stiles clenched his jaw before opening his mouth, knowing the fastest way to get what he wanted was to just say it out loud, especially since he didn’t feel like groping Derek to find _his_ phone to use to communicate.

“Take. Me. Home.” He hoped it actually came out, wasn’t just a mouthing of words. It felt like he’d spoken, but he couldn’t be sure. He waited, wiping at his eyes in a vain attempt to try and staunch the flow. Derek stared at him a moment longer, expression still unreadable before nodding and unlocking the car. Stiles slid in and locked the door, turning towards Derek once more. “Go.” He caught it when Derek’s eyes darted behind him, probably focusing on Scott, who must have come after Stiles by now, but he didn’t turn to look, just waited patiently hoping that for once Derek would listen to him. He was only slightly surprised when the other man did, head bobbing slightly, eyes still focused beyond Stiles before he faced forward and started the car, pulling out of the lot carefully and aiming them back towards the Stilinski residence. Stiles was pretty sure that little head nod meant that Scott had okay’d it for Derek to leave him behind, but he didn’t have the energy to be pissed at either of them any more than he already was.

He was out of the car and up the walkway to his door the second it stopped moving, door banging open as soon as he’d managed to unlock it. The rage was overwhelming, the coatrack by the door in his hands and smashing against the wall before he even realized he’d picked it up. He chucked the pieces left in his hands toward the far wall before kicking at a small table placed near the door for their keys, tipping it on its side before it too was picked up and slammed into the floor. His vision was going spotty as he smashed his way through the entryway and into the living room, destruction in his wake, and he was panting hard by the time he collapsed onto the sofa, the anger burning out and leaving an empty ache behind that quickly filled with shame. He felt the dip as Derek sat down next to him, dropped the hands he’d been holding over his face and looked at the other man. Derek was sitting there, Stiles’ notepad in his hands, ‘ _are you done yet_ ’ written on it, eyebrows raised and mouth twisted in disappointment.

“Oh fuck you.” He may have yelled, he’s not positive, but the amount of bitch in Derek’s bitchface went up several degrees so he’s pretty sure he did. He watched as the page was flipped and Derek’s hand slid across the paper before flipping it so Stiles could read. He couldn’t stop the bark of laughter at the words printed there.

‘ _Not right now, maybe later._ ’

The smile that bloomed on Derek’s face when Stiles laughed was beautiful, his eyes catching the light and seeming to dance. Stiles smiled back, some small part of him grateful that Derek wasn’t treating him like he was broken.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles goes back to the deaf center the next day. Actually, it’s more accurate if he admits that he’s woken by a pair of jeans that have been lobbed at his face. When he manages to untangle himself from the denim and blankets he’s faced with Derek, who has a small travel whiteboard in his hands.

_Get up. Get dressed. You’re going back to the center and actually going further than the desk._

His handwriting is neat and somehow manages to convey a clipped tone, that or his eyebrows are doing that – one or the other. Stiles sighs and slips out of bed, scratching at his bare stomach before bending to drag on the pants. When he straightens he catches sight of Derek, face turned slightly away, cheeks pink. If he was more awake, he’d wonder what that’s about, but his brain hasn’t come fully online yet. He moves over to the dresser and rummages around in a drawer before coming up with his worn Captain America shield shirt – it’s his favorite comfort shirt. He drags it on as Derek carefully erases the words on the board before writing a new message.

_I’ll be downstairs, hurry up._

Stiles nods in acknowledgement, stifling a yawn that probably comes with some seriously unflattering morning breath and digging out a pair of socks. He finishes dressing, adding a hoodie and shoes before brushing his teeth and jogging down the stairs. He finds Derek in the kitchen just as the man is pouring two cups of coffee, he passes one to Stiles who smiles gratefully and gulps it down in between bites of the toast that it seems Derek also made for him. When the food and coffee are gone he grabs his keys and cellphone, shooting off a quick text to his dad to let him know where he’ll be and apologizing again for the damage he did the day before.

He hesitates outside the doors to the center but a gentle push of Derek’s fingers against his back gets him moving again. He approaches the woman at the counter, the same petite woman from the day before. She looks up and smiles at him before moving her right hand in an easy gesture, thumb tucked into her palm and the edge of her hand resting against her forehead before moving out quickly at an angle away from her face. She enunciates the word “hello” at him as she does so, and he guesses that this must be the sign for it. He does his best to copy her movements, a smile from her the reward for his effort. He smiles back, a movement of paper catching his attention from the corner of his eye. Derek seems to have brought an actual pad of paper along with the small whiteboard, and has prewritten on several pages.

_This is Stiles. He was recently diagnosed with total hearing loss. He’s here today to learn about what programs you have and what classes he can take so that he can get back to annoying everyone with his unwanted commentary._

Stiles laughs as the woman’s eyes widen at the last bit. Her gaze darts back and forth between him and Derek before shaking her head and holding out her hand. She mouths something but even though it’s slow, Stiles can’t catch it and he swallows hard against the immediate irritation he feels. Derek must pick up on it because he passes the notepad over to her.

_Hi Stiles, I’m Delia, and we’re happy to have you join us here at the center._

Stiles smiles gratefully at her and writes his own greeting, apologizing for not being able to understand when she’d tried to introduce herself but she waves it off and gestures for him to follow her down a hallway to the left. He’s surprised when Derek walks with them, eyes focused on Delia’s hands as they move while she speaks. Stiles is fairly certain that she’s signing everything that she’s saying, but since he doesn’t know any sign language beyond the gesture she just taught him, he can’t follow along, and writing it all down seems impractical at the moment. Stiles trusts that Derek will fill him in on the important points later, and instead inspects the printed signs taped to the doors they pass, advertising meetings for everything from information for parents with newborns who may be diagnosed as hearing impaired to planning sessions for an annual family camping trip to integration lessons for teens and young adults who are going back to traditional schools. They stop in front of a door that proclaims the meeting inside will be offering introductory sign language classes for free. Delia nods at them before heading back down the hallway and Stiles turns to Derek, expectant.

_She was explaining how to find free resources so that you can learn to sign and to lip read. The next beginning class will start in 10 minutes, this one is done in 5. You’re going to the next one._

He bobs his head in agreement, knowing that they can’t live off of paper tablets and whiteboards forever. He leans against the wall, getting lost in his thoughts as he waits, only looking up when he notices a few people are exiting the room. When it seems that nobody else is left, he heads into the room, eyes tracking the space. It’s about as similar to a standard classroom as he expected, a few rows of desks facing the front, where there’s a large whiteboard along with a poster showing the ASL alphabet again. An older man with kind eyes and greying hair is wiping away the last of what was one the board, and he smiles when he spots Stiles (and Derek, who still hasn’t left yet). He gestures for them to come to the front, repeating the same sign that Delia had used in the lobby. Stiles mimics it again, and sees Derek do the same, smiling softly at Stiles when he catches him looking. The edge of Stiles’ mouth quirks up in response before he turns his attention back to the man. He begins laughing when Derek flips open the notepad again, knowing now what it says. Unlike Delia, this man doesn’t seem at all surprised by the words, mouth parting and small belly shaking in what must be his own laughter. When the man finally calms, Derek sticks out his hand to shake, presumably introducing himself as well, and Stiles’ eyes narrow as he watches the man watch Derek’s mouth. He’s not even remotely surprised when the man holds up a finger before turning his back to them and writing quickly on the whiteboard.

_Nice to meet you both. I’m Mark Belshaw and I was diagnosed with Sudden Deafness about twenty years ago. If you want to learn to communicate without writing it all down, you’ve come to the right place._

Mark turns back to gauge their responses and smiles when he finds them both nodding, absently wiping away his words before turning back to the board.

_Stiles, I have some things I’d like to go grab for you, if you and your boyfriend want to take a seat while you wait I’ll be right back._

Derek was writing something down in the notepad when the tips of his ears went scarlet, it happened right about the time the word boyfriend appeared on the board and Stiles guessed that Mark must be speaking aloud as well as writing it down, since Derek wasn’t even facing the board when it was written. Stiles can’t stop the faint flush that runs across his cheeks as well and resolutely turns on his heel and slides into a desk, keeping his face averted as much as possible. When Mark turned back, Derek was settling into the seat next to Stiles’, and the older man beamed at them before wiping the board clean and hurrying from the room. The thought that it was going to be a long class kept running through Stiles’ head.


	4. Chapter 4

Anger and frustration sparked through his skin. It had been weeks, _weeks_ , and he still couldn’t get anything right. He understood the signs, his penchant for extreme focus during research making that part easy enough, but he couldn’t make his hands form them right. For all that his hands were always moving when he spoke, they didn’t seem to want to curl the right ways. He knew he was being an asshole to everyone around him, could see it whenever they’d glance sideways at him, but he couldn’t reign it in. Derek signed ‘what’s wrong’ at him and he couldn’t even manage to get a simple ‘nothing’ across – because if nothing else, signing meant the wolves couldn’t really tell when he was lying. Derek dropped the whiteboard into his lap, expression full of concern, and that was it. The board was flying through the air and smashing into the wall, shattered bits of plastic raining down before he’d even made a conscious decision to move. His hands came up to grip and tug at his hair, angry tears forming in the corners of his eyes. Suddenly there was a hand gripping his elbow tightly, spinning him back around. Derek’s face was set angrily, mouth tight and eyebrows drawn. When he was sure he had Stiles’ attention he stepped back and began to sign in quick bursts. Stiles’ brain translated it all into sentences easily.

_‘Are you done feeling sorry for yourself yet? Did that make you feel any better?’_

Stiles had the grace to feel ashamed, because Derek was right – what he just did solved nothing, really it just made everything harder. Now he was back to wasting paper. Derek must be easily reading that on his face because his fingers cuffed against Stiles’ chin before he signed again.

_‘I’m not replacing it, but I’ll take you to get a new one. You broke it, you buy it.’_

His head bobbed in agreement, hands patting at his back pocket to make sure he had his wallet on him before he turned and strode to the door, knowing Derek would be following him without checking. Derek was always with him now, it seemed. The other man had fit himself into Stiles’ life easily from the day after the failed attempt to take him to the center. He was there every morning, sometimes drinking coffee with the sheriff, sometimes having breakfast, sometimes just lounging on the couch while he waited for Stiles to get up and get ready. They’d go to the center on days that they offered classes, and on days that there weren’t any, they’d practice, sometimes at Stiles’, sometimes Derek’s, once in awhile at the clinic with Scott or Isaac, if it was nice out they might even head out into the preserve to do it. Derek had picked up ASL easily, his movements graceful and fluid. Stiles only resented him a little for it. He didn’t know why Derek had made him his pet project, but he didn’t openly question it – he had never felt more alone than he did now when left to his own devices, the world too silent to offer enough diversions. He shook off the thoughts that were creeping in, hand shooting out to catch the elevator door before it could close as Derek locked up the loft.

The drive to the nearest Staples took no time at all, and Derek led the way to the portable whiteboards, picking up a couple and stuffing them into Stiles’ waiting arms before signing that it’s better to have extras just in case – especially since not all of the pack was picking up ASL easily. A quick glance at the pricetag told Stiles that they were cheap enough for him not to have to worry about buying the extras along with the replacement. He also nabbed a packet of multicolored dry erase markers for them. And actual erasers – he was so tired of having to use a rag (or if he couldn’t find one, his own shirt). Everything is fine right up until the checkout line. The cashier smiles at him, and then her mouth opens and moves and he’s smacked again by how much the world just is not designed for the deaf. He turns sideways, ignoring the woman, and clumsily signs at Derek, asking for his total. From the corner of his eye he can see the woman flush, mouth dropping open before it’s moving too fast again, this time directed entirely towards Derek. He can see Derek’s mouth form familiar words, reassuring the woman slowly and with exaggerated enunciation that she couldn’t have known. For all that that is true, it doesn’t really make Stiles feel any better, instead reminding him that this is his life from now on. They make it to the car without further incident, Derek digging out one of the boards and markers and handing it to Stiles after they’ve slid into their seats. He waves his hands to get Stiles’ attention before signing at him.

_‘Want to talk about it?’_

Stiles scrawls hastily, a curt ‘nope’ before he wipes the board clean and drops it into the back seat with the rest of them. He can see Derek’s chest expand and collapse, shoulders slumping. Can almost remember what the other man’s irritated sigh sounds like, and it’s just been too much already today. He leans his forehead against the warmed glass of the window and shuts his eyes, the rumble of the car familiar as it starts up. He briefly thinks about how much he misses driving. His sour mood fades as the car moves out of the parking lot, a heavy sadness replacing it. He keeps his eyes closed, tilting his head slightly so his mouth is angled towards Derek.

“Will you take me home please?” He can feel the vibration of his throat, knows that even if it was very quiet, Derek will have heard him. He doesn’t open his eyes again until the car stops, Derek’s hand coming up to squeeze his shoulder briefly as he grabs one of the boards and markers to take into his house with him. Before Stiles realizes what he’s doing, his lips are brushing absently against the soft skin of the hand still resting lightly on his shoulder, a simple gesture, chaste, but it leaves his body tingling, heart beginning to race as he realizes what he’s done. A flicker of his eyes tells him that Derek is shocked too, lips slightly parted, eyes wide. Stiles mumbles an apology, hoping it was clear enough to be understood before scurrying out of the car and up his front steps, door slamming behind him, fingers yanking the lock tight. His head drops back against the doorframe, eyes going distant as his brain unhelpfully replays the last few seconds.

“Fuck!”

 

**

 

Stiles wakes to an empty house, not that he is aware of that fact. Everything that happened the day before comes flooding back to him as soon as his eyes open, his heart thundering in his chest, a tingling under his skin rippling through his body. He grabs fresh clothes from his dresser, jogs across the hall to the bathroom and showers with more speed than he thought possible before dressing in record time. He moves downstairs, brain bouncing from thought to thought, trying to come up with a way to explain away what he’d done. It turns out, he doesn’t have to. Derek is nowhere to be seen. He checks the kitchen, the living room, even going so far as to check both porches and the garage, but the lack of the Camaro parked out front is what confirms it for him. His teeth catch on his bottom lip, chewing on it as he paces while he waits, conversations playing themselves out in his head – ways to explain he didn’t mean it, or to explain it doesn’t mean what Derek probably thinks it means. After ten long minutes he flops down onto the couch to wait, sliding his phone out of his pocket, thumbs tapping away as he scrolls through his browser, clicking on the link for Stumbleupon – which is pretty much the best site ever designed for someone with ADHD. He rests the ankle of his right leg onto his left knee, foot jiggling with nerves, checks the time, clicks the next link in the lineup. Forty minutes have gone by, his left leg bouncing in counterpoint to the wiggling of his foot, body shifting slightly every few minutes, energy pulsing under his skin. He gets lost in the loop of sites, an hour and a half gone before he knows it, body taut with tension, lip raw from the constant drag against his teeth. When he crosses the two hour mark, his body slumps and stills, foot slipping to the floor, phone slipping to the cushion next to him as his hands bracket his head. The class Derek was supposed to take him to is over now, it’s as clear a signal as any that the other man isn’t coming today. It feels like an eternity before he can straighten up, retrieving his phone and thumbing through to his texts. He shoots off a quick one asking Scott if there’d been some sort of supernatural activity. Thankfully he doesn’t have to wait long for an answer.

**_Scott:_ ** _Not that I know of. Why?_

**_Stiles:_ ** _Oh. Derek didn’t show up so I thought something happened._

**_Scott:_ ** _Everything ok?_

**_Stiles:_ ** _I think I fucked up…_

**_Scott:_ ** _Skype?_

**_Stiles:_ ** _Ok_

His feet pounded against the stairs as he made his way back to his room, computer whirring to life. He logged on a soon as the wifi connected, turning off the video option and waiting for the green dot that indicated Scott was online. It didn’t take long before it lit up, announcing a message, and he was grateful that there was still one somewhat easy way for him to communicate. He laid everything out, the past few weeks, the time he’d been spending with Derek. Scott already knew about the crush Stiles had harbored right up until the explosion, knew that, unlike with Lydia, this one wasn’t some pipe dream with a ten year plan. They’d all grown over the years, and when they finally talked about this, Stiles had told him how different it felt, how much more real his feelings for Derek were than they had ever been for her, had agreed to keep it to himself. Stiles was pretty sure most of the pack was aware, if only because he’d never been very good at hiding his feelings, though he had spent years now working on it. He gets to the part about yesterday fairly quickly, about the inadvertent slip, his subsequent fleeing from the car, finishing with Derek not showing up for the first day in weeks, not even bothering to send a text to let Stiles know. There’s no response for several long minutes, just the trail of ellipses that indicate Scott is typing. He waits, chewing absently on the edge of his thumb (a relief for his slightly swollen bottom lip at least). He’s expecting a paragraph by the time the little blue bubble appears, with how long it took. What he gets is two short sentences.

 _‘I’m sorry. Want me to talk to him?’_ And really? That’s it? His chest expands rapidly, exhalation a sigh, fingers drumming silently against the desk top before typing out a terse _‘no’_.

_‘Ok, let me know if you change your mind.’_

‘ _Will do Scotty. I’m sure it’s fine. I’m overreacting.’_

_‘Ok. I have class. Text me if you need me.’_

And then Scott’s gone, logged out, and Stiles can only stare at the screen, heart hammering away. He isn’t sure how long he sits, his thoughts loud and scattered, each one clamoring for his attention, before he gets up, a hollow ache in his chest as he toes off his shoes before crawling fully clothed into his bed, his phone abandoned next to the laptop, out of his line of sight. He’s not really sure why he expected anything different, he loves Scott but the man is still dense when it comes to anything outside of his own relationships. It’s not like Stiles expected advice, but he thought at least the other man would be able to provide some comfort, some reassurance that he hadn’t damaged his friendship with Derek beyond repair. Something. He closed his eyes, the ache spreading like a crack in the ice, and drifted down into sleep, uncaring that it was barely noon, that he’d only been up for a little bit over three hours.

 

**

 

It’s dark when he wakes, disorienting. His hand comes up to scrub down his face and he’s startled by the lack of noise when his palm bangs into his forehead. For just a minute, he’d forgotten. He hasn’t forgotten in weeks. Stiles bites back on the sob that threatens to wrench it’s way out of his throat and sits up, elbows resting on his knees, face cradled in his shaking hands. He waits it out, breaths stuttering in and out of his lungs until they finally slow to something resembling normal. A light blinks off and on near his computer, catching his gaze, and he stretches an arm out to retrieve the phone he’d left there.

**_From Dad:_ ** _Had to work a double kiddo. Have Derek run you up for food if the fridge is empty._

His eyes squeeze shut, heart clenching painfully at the lack of any other messages. His fingers move of their own accord, the message typed and sent before he can stop himself.

**_To Derek:_ ** _Everything okay?_

He waits. And waits. And then waits more. The glow from his phone has faded, the screen gone dark. He waits a few more minutes before deftly unlocking it, body going taut at what he sees. Stupid iPhones with their stupid message delivery notice. His text has been seen, but there isn’t even an ellipsis to indicate that Derek started to respond. He just looked at the text and ignored it. Which is pretty much an answer in itself – obviously things are not okay. At least, not between them. He drops the phone to his bed, feet shuffling as he carefully makes his way downstairs, flipping on lights as he goes. The fridge is nearly empty, they’ll need to shop soon, but since he can’t drive, he’ll have to wait on someone else. Cupboards and cabinets are opened and closed, nothing appealing hiding behind any of them. He finally gives up, stomach twisting and roiling with anxiety, grabbing a glass and filling it with water before retreating to his room. He glances once more at his phone, but there are no lights blinking to tell him he has a message waiting, the disappointment already weighing heavily on him. He turns it off – not like he’d be able to hear it anyhow if there was an emergency – and drops it on the nightstand. Slipping into pajamas takes no time at all and then he’s crawling under the covers, body dragging like he’s made of lead. Whatever this feeling is, it settles over him, pulls him under.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s nearly a week before he sees Derek again. Before he sees any other person again actually. He doesn’t text anyone and nobody texts him. The voices in his head claw at him about it, but that leaden weight keeps the panic at bay. He scrounges up enough food from the kitchen to keep going, every bite a chore. His dad had been stuck with doubles all week, coming home well after Stiles went to bed (which really, not difficult since he barely left it except out of necessity) and leaving before he was up again. Without the routine of his classes, of having someone make sure he left his house, Stiles found he just…didn’t. He would’ve stayed there indefinitely if they hadn’t run out of food – might have even with that except his father finally noticed the groceries were gone. He shook Stiles awake before he left for his last double, carefully signing (mostly spelling but at least he was learning and trying) that he left money on the table and Stiles should get someone in the pack to take him shopping. His head bobbed once before his eyes slid shut again. When he woke a few hours later, there was a note in his father’s neat scrawl, explaining again that money and a list were downstairs and to text if he needed anything else.

Stiles resisted the urge to curl back up and roll over, let sleep claim him again. He didn’t really care if he ate, but he knew that if he didn’t get up and take care of this, his dad would start relying on fast food and take out (more than he probably already was with all of the extra shifts), and that was a path that led to high cholesterol and heart attacks. His shower was fast, it’s not like he’d been doing anything to get particularly dirty. He sat on the couch, water dripping softly from his hair to his shoulders, and texted Scott.

**_Stiles:_ ** _Are you busy?_

**_Scott:_ ** _Just out of class, have a few min, y?_

**_Stiles:_ ** _Oh, nvm._

**_Scott:_ ** _Evrythng ok?_

**_Stiles:_ ** _…_

**_Scott:_ ** _Stiles? You okay?_

**_Stiles:_ ** _I’m fine. Sorry to bother you._

**_Scott:_ ** _I always have time for you man._

**_Stiles:_ ** _Doesn’t seem like it._

**_Scott:_ ** _What does that mean?_

**_Stiles:_ ** _It means this is the first time in a week that you’ve talked to me. That anyone’s talked to me._

**_Scott:_ ** _…_

**_Scott:_ ** _I’m sorry…I didn’t…_

**_Stiles:_ ** _It’s fine. Nevermind. Don’t worry about it._

He replies before Scott can finish whatever thought he has, turning off the vibration and locking his phone before slipping it into his pocket with the money and list. He knows he shouldn’t be this mad, knows it’s not Scott’s fault that his classes and work take up so much of his time, that his dad’s been working so much (‘ _to pay for your medical bills_ ’ swirls angrily in the back of his mind), that the rest of the pack couldn’t be bothered to see how he was. Knowing doesn’t make the hurt any smaller. He stuffs his feet into his shoes, forcefully shoving his arms through the sleeves of his worn red hoodie. He’s about to walk out the door, try taking the bus maybe, when his gaze catches on a glint of metal in the bowl on the entry table. He snatches up the keys to the jeep, fingers only hesitating slightly before he storms outside, levering himself into the vehicle and feeling a thrill of satisfaction as it rumbles to life beneath him. There’s nothing that _legally_ stops him from driving, so he backs it out of the driveway carefully, eyes scanning the street for traffic or people. The short trip to the grocery store takes him longer than it used to, his heart thudding away in his chest, nerves rattling, anxiety souring his stomach. He’s a good driver, but half his cues used to come from the sounds around him, now he has to rely completely on his eyes, and it’s so much harder than he anticipated. He’s relieved when he pulls into an empty parking spot in the store’s lot, his head thumping gently onto the steering wheel. It’s another few minutes before he feels steady enough to ease himself from the car, feet slapping soundlessly against the asphalt as he makes his way inside.

He pulls the list from his pocket, ignoring the blinking message light on his phone, and grabs a basket, rolling carefully through the aisles and adding the things his dad put down along with a few extras. He’s nearly done when he spots a familiar shape at the other end of the aisle he’s just turned onto. His body tenses, muscles locking and heartbeat picking up steadily. He tries to turn, backing into another cart, face going crimson as the man holding onto the cart he backed into opens his mouth, yelling he presumes, drawing more attention to him. His eyes blink rapidly, mouth falling open, chest heaving and vision starting to go spotty at the edges. The other man’s gaze locks on something behind him, his face slowly paling, one hand coming up in an apologetic gesture, palm up, placating. Whatever he says is just as lost on Stiles as the yelling was. He knows what he’s going to find when he turns around, tries to figure out how to leave without having to do it, but can’t think of anything. The air feels like molasses as he spins, everything slow and heavy, the panic pushing his perception to weird places. Derek’s eyebrows are scrunched down in concern, eyes narrowed and hands coming up to sign.

_‘Are you okay?’_

He can’t stop the bark of laughter, is sure that if he could hear it, it would be tinged with bitterness. His fingers wrap tightly around the handle of the shopping cart, knuckles going white, head dropping slightly so he can pretend he can’t see Derek’s hands, doesn’t have to see what else he might say.

“Why do you even care?” Stiles is pretty sure he mumbles it, adrenaline helping him shove the cart down the aisle towards the registers despite the panic attack welling up. He feels a jerk as his arm is grabbed, keeps his face turned away until fingertips dig into his chin, forcing him to make eye contact. Derek’s lips are plush, shiny where he must have licked at them recently, when he mouths the words, enunciating so Stiles can understand him (and god how he wants to pretend he can’t understand anything, but he knows that Derek knows how much he can get if someone speaks slowly).

_‘I do. I’m sorry.’_

And his mouth is opening again, but Stiles just can’t. He holds up a hand, speaks loud enough that he’s sure to be heard and understood.

“Stop. I don’t want your pity anymore.” He sees Derek mouth the word ‘what’, surprise darting across his face, but it doesn’t feel genuine, because he’s seen Derek actually surprised, and the face he’s making right now looks like his ‘I already knew this but I don’t feel like explaining so I’ll pretend this is all new to me’ face, and that’s it for Stiles, that’s all he can take in one day. His head shakes, fingers unclenching from the cart, list fluttering to the floor as he skirts around the cart, shoulders tense, feet helping him to hurry out of the store before he can be stopped again.

The drive home is a blur, and he should worry more about that but all he can feel is relief when he sinks down to the living room floor. His breath is coming in sharp pants, nails digging crescents into his palms as his hands clench and unclench, black creeping into the edges of his vision as he gives in to the panic attack. He catches a final flash of bright light before he’s swallowed up by the darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

There’s a hand on his chest rubbing smooth circles into his skin, his body gently swaying, pressure against the top of his head where someone’s chin is gliding back and forth. It’s soothing until he remembers he was home alone when he passed out, eyes snapping open and heartbeat ratcheting up again, body trying to twist free of the arms holding him, surprise rushing through him when they open and release him as soon as he begins to struggle. He scrambles forward, knees sliding on the carpet and hands flailing wildly, gaining distance before his brain wakes enough for him to realize that whoever was there hadn’t been hurting him. His movements slow, the adrenaline fading nearly as fast as it came, and he spins and plants his ass, face tilting up until he can see who is there with him. His eyes trace across stubbled cheeks, catch on a familiar green gaze, face heating as he realizes Derek followed him home, the bright flash must have been daylight, the door opening when the other man heard him start to pass out. He’s lost, eyes tracking over Derek’s face, trying to understand why he’d come, after nearly a week of silence. The heaviness is back, shrouding him, whispering in the corners of his mind, telling him it’s only misplaced guilt that brought the other man here, some misplaced sense of duty to pack. He tries to swallow it back, to bury it down with the rest of the feelings he can’t examine too closely, but he must give something away, because Derek’s moving, knee-walking to where Stiles is slumped, hands sliding up his biceps before sliding around him, pulling Stiles into a hug. He wants to resist, wants to find enough anger to smother this strange ache, but he can’t, mind and body weak, and he melts into the embrace, ashamed to feel hot tears dripping down his face. One of Derek’s hands slides down his back, palm warming where it presses against him, the other curls at the nape of his neck, fingers finding purchase in the soft hair curling there. Stiles can feel his own hands moving, finds his fingers twisting in the soft cotton of Derek’s shirt, can feel the strain in his arms, how tightly he’s winding himself around the other man, and he gives in, lets it all go, sobs wracking his body.

He quiets after awhile, sobs easing back until there’s only the slightest hitch in his breathing, Derek’s arms loosening only when Stiles begins to pull back. He scrubs at his eyes with the side of his hand, wiping away the last of the moisture, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. He feels weak for breaking down again, the voices in his head doing nothing to ease the worry. His knees draw up to his chest, forearms resting on them, hands clumsily forming signs.

_‘Why are you here?’_

He watches as Derek moves backwards, knees untucking from underneath him and drawing up as he leans back against the couch opposite Stiles, sees the rise and fall of the other man’s chest as he takes a breath, face turning away before settling back on him as his hands start to move, so much more graceful than Stiles’ own.

_‘I was worried about you.’_

_‘Since when?’_ Stiles’ nostrils flared as he let out a disbelieving snort.

 _‘I know I wasn’t here –’_ That’s enough for Stiles and he waves a hand, cutting Derek off before signing furiously, hoping the signs he was unsure of were close enough to be understood.

 _‘I’m sorry I let my feelings show, but you abandoned me. Tell me again exactly how you were worried about me today when you haven’t been worried about me for a week.’_ He can see the muscle in Derek’s jaw ticking, the scowl washing over his face. Can feel the sneer forming on his own face as Derek answers.

_‘Stiles, I know it’s been hard this last month, you’re lonely and I was here. I get it. But what you think you feel –’_

“You condescending asshole.” He can feel the ache and burn in his throat as he yells. “Are you really trying to tell me how I feel?” His elbow knocks into the coffee table as he stands, body taut in anger. “I have been in love with you since I was seventeen! I know how I feel and it has nothing to do with this!” His fingers clap against his ears, mouth twisted in a snarl, dark satisfaction rolling through when Derek’s eyes go wide, lips opening and closing, trying to form words Stiles won’t even be able to hear. “Get out of my house, don’t come back.” The words are biting, the other man flinching from them as he sweeps past and up the stairs, the vibration of his bedroom door echoing through the floorboards. His head hangs, fists clenching and unclenching, anger pulsing with every beat of his heart. He’d thought at least they could still be friends – but not if that’s how Derek saw him, someone so pathetic they’d latch on to the first person to show a little kindness. He thought Derek knew him better than that, he’d never been more sorry to be wrong.

 

**

 

Derek is rooted to the spot when Stiles storms upstairs, brain spinning in the face of Stiles’ anger fueled confession. He’d never meant to act like he knew better than Stiles, but he had honestly thought that what the other man was feeling was a product of him being around so much. He knows what it’s like to latch onto the first person to show you something other than pity, knows it intimately. And he knows he’s not Kate, but just because he knows he wouldn’t burn Stiles’ life down around him it doesn’t mean it was a healthy attachment. Except…Stiles told him that isn’t what it is, never was. He staggers to his feet, mind racing as he tries to process just what the hell happened. He’d thought, sometimes, that there was something there, but Stiles was young, his chemosignals marred by raging hormones and medication. Derek hadn’t realized, or maybe he just hadn’t _wanted_ to realize – not when Stiles was the son of the sheriff (his underage son, although that wasn’t true anymore) – that maybe more of that confusing mix of signals was meant for him than he had thought. He thinks back, _seventeen_ , around the time of the Darach, the Nogitsune, most of the bad things that happened to Stiles had happened during that year. And Derek…he hadn’t been particularly good or helpful then. He was there for the pack, but not as much as they’d needed him. He can’t think of any reason why that year was the year that Stiles might have fallen for him…except, that isn’t exactly true. Because he’d believed Stiles, when nobody else had – had believed him when Stiles told him that Jennifer was the Darach. And a few months later, in the desert, the way Stiles had looked at him when he hesitated before going into the church to find Scott, it had seemed like…something. And the more he thinks, the more he finds, a million little things that alone don’t really mean anything, but together…god, he feels so stupid for not seeing it sooner.

His feet echo as he charges up the stairs, tiny explosions that mirror the pounding of his heart. The door to the room slams open, but of course garners no reaction, Stiles’ body turned away, head bowed. The bitter scent of disappointment nearly overshadowed by the acrid stench of his anger, still simmering under his skin, leaving it flushed. Derek steps around the other man, registering the tightening of his eyes when he realizes that Derek never left. He starts to sign, frustrated when Stiles turns his face away, clenching his eyes and refusing to look, even when Derek gently grips his chin, trying to draw his face back. It’s infuriating, the childish behavior that’s stopping him from responding, explaining, and he shouldn’t do what he does next, but he gives in to his impulses, the drive that’s been pushing at him ever since that first day in the woods, when Derek caught two scents in a clearing, one he recognized from the inhaler stuffed into his pocket, one a curious mix of boy and anxiety and adrenaline and…home, so he does what he thinks he needs to. His mouth slams roughly against Stiles’, all teeth and pressure, and it startles the other man, his eyes flying open wildly, body nearly falling backwards. Derek starts signing as soon as they break apart.

 _‘I love you. I have loved you for longer than I want to admit. I’m sorry I hurt you, I didn’t know. If…I didn’t know.’_ He tracks Stiles’ eyes as the move back and forth between his fingers and his face, looking for a lie. And he hates it, because Stiles could always tell when he was lying, something in Derek’s voice giving it away, and now Stiles doesn’t have that, and he doesn’t have werewolf sense, he can’t hear and smell the truth of it all. He does the only thing he can think of, fingertips circling Stiles’ wrist, dragging his palm up until he can press it snugly against his own throat where he knows his pulse is the strongest. He speaks now, one hand signing along while the other holds Stiles’ palm in place.

“I love you.” There’s an audible gasp from the other man, his fingertips trembling against Derek’s Adam’s apple.

“I can feel it, when you talk. I can _feel_ your words.” There’s moisture gathering in the corners of Stiles’ eyes, and Derek can feel an echoing wetness in his own. His runs his palm down Stiles’ hand, along his forearm to his bicep, wrapping it around the other man and drawing him close, repeating the words as Stiles presses his fingers more deeply into Derek’s skin. If he were human, he’d bruise from the pressure, but he isn’t, and so he doesn’t care (isn’t really sure if he’d care even if he could bruise). They stand there for a long time, arms twined around each other, as Derek tells a man who cannot hear him that he loves him, over and over, relishing in the emotions now pouring off of Stiles: wonder, excitement, hope, and love. The first real movement comes from Stiles, and Derek has a moment to wonder if the other man is going to pull away, make them talk about this right now, but all he does is twist the fingers of his free hand with one of Derek’s hands, bringing it up to his own throat, helping Derek to splay his palm across it, thumb caressing the edge of Stiles’ jaw.

“I love you too.” It’s soft, like a sigh, but Derek can still feel it in the puffs of breath against his skin, the slight movement along his mouth, and the gentle vibration under Stiles’ skin. He rubs his cheek along the top of the other man’s head before placing a gentle kiss to the crown, grip on his back and neck tightening at the words.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So...here's the porn that earned this story it's rating. Also some more feelings. Oops.

The kiss (and all the ones that followed) wasn’t a quick fix of course. They’d both made mistakes, had a lot to talk about, a lot to rectify. The days are filled again with classes in ASL and lip reading (not the technical term, but whatever, Stiles is going to call it what it is). They’re also filled with lingering touches, the feel of stubble scraping against his skin, of someone’s arms wrapped around him, his around them. They decide together to take things slow. There’s already so much new in their lives, there’s no reason to rush things. Stiles is pretty sure Derek is the reason the rest of the pack is coming around more now too – not because he made them (he can’t, he’s not their alpha anymore), but because he told them how adrift Stiles had felt without them. They stopped looking at him with sadness, with pity, and started teasing and joking again. They’d all been learning sign from Scott (who Derek would teach every night after he left Stiles all the way from the beginning), and most of them were getting pretty good at it. With so many other people to speak to, Stiles’ signs were improving, his fingers and hands bending and weaving the words with more grace than he’d managed before. He starts to feel more like pack right up until something bad shows up again, and then he realizes he can’t ever really be pack the way he was before. He tries to grab his bat, load up his jeep, only to find himself stopped on his way out the door, Scott’s face set though he can see the regret in the other man’s expression as he tells Stiles that he can’t go with them, that it isn’t safe. He opens his mouth on a protest, willing to argue his way out the door, but he catches the fear flashing in Scott and Derek’s eyes and relents, heart breaking as he watches the most important people in his life walk out into danger, terrified because he can’t be there with them, because he can’t help anymore. He’s settling in for a long night of worrying and self-loathing when the loft door opens again, Allison’s face dimpling in a smile at him as she slips back inside.

She’d taken to sign faster than the others, probably because she’d already learned a lot of it when she was training to hunt. The Argents had run military training; silence was always helpful for them. When she came back inside the loft, she brought with her a black duffle bag, straps straining under the weight stuffed into it. She strode towards the sofa, turning and resting against it momentarily as she dropped the bag on her feet and started to sign.

 _‘I was going to wait a little longer, until we talked to everyone more about training, but now…’_ She trailed off for a moment, shoulders lifting in a shrug before crouching to open the bag at her feet, deftly pulling out several items and laying them carefully on the floor.

 _‘There’s no reason not to start now.’_ She’d pulled out a crossbow, shortbow, and longbow, along with a quiver of arrows and an assortment of bolts. Stiles’ confusion must have shown on his face because she moved closer to him, redirecting his attention from the weapons.

 _‘You aren’t useless, you can still help research, but I know you also want to help fight, and this is a way you can do it. Hawkeye is deaf but he’s still an Avenger after all.’_ Her smile was radiant and Stiles could see how easily Scott had fallen for her (even if it hadn’t worked out in the end). He felt the swell of gratitude in his chest, knew that she had to have been planning this for awhile, had probably at least talked to Scott because he knew Allison, and a comics fan she was not. He took the remaining steps between them quickly, wrapping her in a tight hug, feeling the returning squeeze as her arms twined around him. When they pulled back, she twisted her head, placing a kiss on his temple before stepping back over to the weapons and hefting the shortbow, tossing it at Stiles, her face splitting into a laugh as he fumbled but managed not to drop it. His head shook but he was smiling now too as she came around to help him get into the proper stance for shooting, correcting his legs and arms, moving the bow slightly so it wasn’t so close to his face when he pulled back on the draw. His arms began to shake far sooner than he expected the muscle strain different than anything he was used to. By the time the rest of the pack had returned, they’d been at it for a few hours, his mind completely occupied with learning how to handle the weapons properly, how to move them. They hadn’t shot because they were in the loft and there were no targets aside from the walls, which had enough holes already, but Allison promised him that she’d meet him after his class the next day and they’d head out into the preserve so they could start working. The bad had turned out to be an omega, and they managed to take care of the wolf without bloodshed. He saw a few raised brows as he helped Allison put the weapons away, but nobody said anything, so he took it as approval. Most of the pack had begun drifting out by the time they’d gotten everything stored properly, all of them making sure to get his attention to say goodbye before they left. Allison threw an arm around his shoulders in a brief hug before she hefted up the bag, yanking it out of Isaac’s reach when he tried to take it from her. Stiles caught the edge of the word ‘fine’ leaving her mouth, glad he was making progress in reading lips too.

Strong arms wrapped around his middle as the door shut on Allison and Isaac, tanned hands coming into view and making the now-familiar gesture for ‘stay’. He knew it was a question, so he leaned back into the embrace, head nodding. He was spun around, face cradled by a warm palm as soft lips met his own in a slow kiss that broke a bit more quickly than he wanted, Derek’s forehead tilting to rest against his own, mouth parted to share his air. He smiled at his wolf before taking his hand and heading upstairs, more than ready to sleep. He’d taken to leaving spare clothes here – not a lot, usually an extra pair of boxers, a spare shirt, and some sleepwear. He changed quickly, using the bathroom before sliding between the sheets. They slept together often, they just didn’t _sleep_ together. And oddly, he was okay with that still. So much had changed, but the comfort they brought to one another remained steady. He was starting to drift by the time Derek crawled into bed with him, the bedside light casting a warm yellow glow over his skin, making it shine. Stiles opened his eyes a little more when he realized Derek was trying to talk to him.

_‘It looks like you and Allison had an interesting night.’_

_‘Yeah, she thinks I can learn on the bows, maybe help if I’m needed from a distance.’_

_‘Seems like a good plan. You know, Hawkeye was deaf – even if the movies don’t show it.’_ And that’s when Stiles realizes that Allison did talk to someone in the pack about this in advance, but it wasn’t Scott, like he’d thought. It brings a smile to his face that has Derek tilting his head in question.

 _‘She said something similar. Wonder where she heard that?’_ Despite the low light, Stiles can see the blush creep across Derek’s cheekbones and up the edges of his ears. It’s endearing and he scoots himself closer, palms cupping the man’s cheeks as he brushes their mouths together. The kiss is languid, a gentle caress of lips and tongues, heat building between them slowly. They always stopped at this point, one or both of them pulling back, afraid to push too far too fast and break what was happening between them. It had been good these last few months, the few fights over stupid things, inconsequential, _normal_. It felt good to be happy. And this, this felt good. Felt right. Stiles didn’t want to stop, and if the hands roaming along his back were giving the right signals, Derek didn’t want to stop either. He rolls himself over until he’s straddling him, his body slotting against Derek’s, the sudden friction enough to make him moan into the other man’s mouth. There’s a vibration against his lips, a slight arch to Derek’s back that rolls their hips together before Derek pulls his face back, dragging his hands between them, one palm against Stiles’ chest to keep him from leaning back down, the other held up in a ‘wait’ gesture. When Stiles sits up more fully, Derek lifts his hands.

 _‘What do you want to do? I want…’_ He trails off for a moment, eyes darting around nervously before he seems to steel his resolve and continue. _‘I want you, but I can wait. I will wait. If you don’t want this.’_ Stiles smiles at him, hips rocking softly before he answers, relishing the way Derek’s chest halts momentarily at the sensation, his eyes briefly closing before snapping back open.

 _‘I want you. I always want you. I’m ready.’_ Derek’s eyes track across his face, looking for signs of doubt, so Stiles lifts the other man’s hand, settling his palm over his heart before speaking. “I want you inside of me, I’m ready. I love you.” He knows there’s no skip in his heartbeat, knows that with the words, Derek can hear the truth, and it’s like a dam breaking.

Derek’s hands are strong on his hip and back as the other man deftly rolls them over, his body pressing Stiles down into the mattress. The kisses are heated now, teeth catching on lips as their shirts are both yanked off and thrown. Stiles digs his head into the pillow behind him as Derek moves down his body, teeth grazing across his collarbone, scraping over his nipple, tongue laving across his body as he goes. His back arches as Derek sucks marks into skin. Sweats and boxers slide down his legs, the drag making his breath hitch. His cock springs free, flushed and hard, precome beading along the tip already. His eyes track Derek’s tongue as it sweeps along his lips, the man’s pupils blowing wide. He thinks he might whine when the other man slides backwards off the bed, but it’s stopped short when he watches Derek slowly bend, sliding his own pants off and kicking them to the side. He steps up to the nightstand, retrieving a new bottle of lube and dropping it next to Stiles before grabbing a pillow from above him and settling it under Stiles’ hips. Derek signs briefly before lowering himself back to the bed, settling between Stiles’ legs and waiting until he gets a nod of agreement.

_‘Pinch me or tell me to stop if you don’t like something.’_

Stiles shoves another pillow behind his head as he nods, making sure he’s propped up enough to watch, body jerking when he feels a warm, wet sensation circling his rim, catches the other man’s smirk as his breath stutters when Derek darts his tongue out and catches the bit of precome from the head of his cock. He groans as Derek’s mouth slides down his length, warm and wet, humming as he goes and sending vibrations shooting through his body. He’s lost in the sensation of lips and tongue and suction when the first finger breaches him slowly, his body tightening briefly before relaxing. He shifts slightly, angling his hips upwards a little more, cock popping out of Derek’s mouth and bobbing a little as it taps his lips. He groans again, eyes shutting tightly, afraid what he’s seeing will cause this to be over too fast. His hands fist in the sheets as he’s once again enveloped in the warm heat of Derek’s mouth, hips jerking and stilling when he’s sucked all the way down, Derek’s nose buried in the dark curls at the base of his cock. He feels a slight burn as a second finger is added, slowly pistoning in and out, a little pull as the fingers inside of him stretch and curl, brushing briefly across his prostate, making him clench down. He can feel the chuckle Derek lets out around his cock when he brushes across that sweet spot again, has to reach down and grip himself tightly as the other man pulls back, knows he’s panting now, fire rushing through his veins, body flashing with heat. He moans as the fingers slide free, hole twitching with emptiness before the hand is back, three fingers pushing gently inside.

“I’m ready, god…enough, so ready.” He hopes it doesn’t sound as needy out loud as it does in his head, but he can’t take it anymore, wants all of Derek in him. He feels a tap on his hip, eyes barely opening to see Derek waving around a small square of foil – it takes his brain an embarrassing amount of minutes to figure out what’s being asked, not helped at all by the fingers sliding in him, tugging at his rim. He shakes his head, knows he’s clean and werewolves can’t carry, and if it was someone else maybe he’d think twice, but this is Derek, and he’s pretty sure this is it for both of them. A gentle kiss is placed against his thigh as the other man shifts himself up to his knees, the front of Derek’s thighs flush against the back of Stiles’ own. He watches Derek slick his own cock up, large but not monstrous, foreskin dragging back from the head as he lines up against Stiles’ entrance. The pressure is more than he anticipated, his erection flagging slightly as Derek pushes in slowly, allowing Stiles time to relax as he goes. Finally the head pops through and Derek stops, waits to feel Stiles unclench around him, hands petting his thighs soothingly. At a nod from Stiles he starts moving again, pushing in until their bodies are pressed tightly together, leaning down to capture Stiles’ mouth in  languid kiss, giving him time again to adjust. Stiles can feel the other man’s mouth move along his skin when the kiss is broken, not kissing, but forming words, and it hurts something inside of him that he can’t hear them, that he’ll never hear them. There’s moisture beading up in his eyes before he knows it – and he must be giving off enough signals that Derek has realized, because he’s lifting himself up gently, starting to pull out, panic on his face. Stiles hooks his feet around Derek’s waist, heels digging into the divots at the base of his spine, holding him in place.

 _‘What’s wrong? Am I hurting you?’_ It’s the first time Stiles has ever seen Derek fumble with his signs, but he gets the point and shakes his head, bringing up his own trembling hands to answer, not trusting his voice.

 _‘No. I just…’_ he takes a deep breath before continuing, _‘I can’t hear you. I want to hear you and I can’t.’_ He sees Derek’s mouth form an ‘o’ as he realizes what’s happening, heart throbbing in his chest. He closes his eyes, trying to will himself back into the moment, and only startles slightly when he feels Derek’s hand run along the top of one of his, fingers helping him to unclench his fist from the sheet before pulling it up and settling it against his neck. He opens his eyes, curiosity plain on his face, and feels the movement against his palm as Derek takes a breath and speaks, vibrations coursing through his skin, eyes tracking the movement of the other man’s lips as he speaks slowly.

“I love you. I want you. You feel so good, Stiles. So tight and hot.” He can feel the bob of Derek’s Adam’s apple as he swallows, a blush rising across his cheeks as he speaks, bringing a smile to his own lips.

“Thank you.” He uses the leverage on Derek’s neck to pull the other man back down to him, groaning as it sinks Derek back inside fully, Stiles’ cock hardening as it brushes against the right spot inside of him. He brushes his lips across Derek’s before arching his back and rolling his hips, a gentle nudge to get the other man moving again. He knows there are noises spilling out of him, can feel the noises Derek is letting out, rumbles and hums against his skin as he picks up the pace, Derek’s cock hitting the sweet spot nearly every other thrust, hips slamming against the backs of Stiles’ thighs. He can feel himself hardening again at the sensations, moans when he feels Derek’s still slicked palm wrap around his cock, stroking him in time to his thrusts. His limbs felt heavy, pleasure building low in his belly, his gasps faster, and he could feel the echo in Derek’s body, the other man’s chest heaving, hips pistoning faster as he chased his release. Stiles felt himself tip over the edge first, body clenching tight before he spilled over Derek’s fist and his own belly, going boneless as his come pulsed out between them. It took Derek a bare few thrusts after and he was following, thighs pressed tight against Stiles, hips grinding as he spent himself inside of the other man, forehead dropping down to rest against Stiles’, breath ghosting across his lips. They stayed that way for a few minutes, Derek’s hand still fisted loosely around Stiles’ softening cock, his own still buried inside of Stiles. Eventually Derek sighed and sat back on his heels, freeing himself from Stiles, his hand still covered in the other man’s come. He smiled down at him before bringing it up to his mouth and licking it clean, eyes sparkling as Stiles watched and groaned, his cock giving a valiant twitch but too spent to get hard again so soon. He leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on Stiles’ knee before edging his way off the bed and into the bathroom, cleaning himself off and returning with a warm washcloth.

He wiped Stiles down gently, a smile on his face as he cleaned him off, Stiles’ body still twitching at the touches, careful not to linger where he was overly sensitive. He balled up the washcloth and tossed it towards the bathroom before dragging the pillow out from underneath Stiles and dropping it off the side of the bed (he’d forgotten to get a towel, it definitely needed a wash now), levering himself back up towards the headboard. He managed to slide the blanket out from beneath them and pull it up until they were covered to the waist, gently tugging at Stiles’ hand until the other man got with the program and rolled over, pillowing his head on Derek’s chest, one leg flung across his. Derek’s hand flitted in front of Stiles’ eyes, making sure he had his attention before signing out.

_‘I love you.’_

_‘I love you too sourwolf, night.’_ Derek chuckled at the nickname, something Stiles had spent days coming up with a sign for. Stiles could feel the movement as Derek laughed and smiled against the other man’s chest before drifting off to the steady thump of Derek’s heart pulsing up through his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, that's all. Hopefully you enjoyed this and I didn't fuck anything up to bad.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://jennthereaper.tumblr.com) if you're so inclined.


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